h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

"No, no, no, not HURTING it's HERDING...."

My boss, on the phone to a German colleague, today.

Were cats involved?

Indeed!

And a very worried German colleague who had been told the day before there was more than one way to skin them.

Oh dear. Any mention of swinging them?

I'd better get home and check the s are ok...

I do own a book called "101 uses of a dead cat" ...

I have one, in an urn...

Mine tried to skin me once. https://picasaweb.google.com/doktorrobingram/Misc#5374915430585287298

http://picasaweb.google.com/doktorrobingram/Misc#5374915430585287298

Yeeeeouchhhhhh!

Actually, I think I said, "... ing you little er"!!!!

Quite.

What did he think you were trying to do to him?

I was swinging him... OK, not on purpose. I was trying to introduce another male cat to the home. I thought he might be getting acquainted, but instead he attacked. I grabbed him, he bit me, I stood up, he sank in the claws, I slung him off me, he kept some tissue samples for evidence.

Can I ?

It looks very very painful though?

Why did I look? I knew it was going to be bad, and I don't click on links more than half the time anyway, so why did I look? *shudder*

*ahem*

Ouch!

Humor is pain + time. It's funny now. And the scars are pretty cool.

And what did you expect, naming him Greebo?

And a very thorough OUCH, in memory of some misjudged cat experiments I'd rather not go into.

Perhaps your boss would like to come and tell some of the guys in our church choir that it's not Cheeses.

Okay, I think I've told this one B4, but the thread seems to be begging for a recap.

Set the WayBack Machine for the year 2000. Coordinates: St Charles, MO. Incident: showering with the cat.

We'd had a black male cat named Onyx. He had a white diamond on his chest. We was inquisitive by nature. I was the only guy in the house, as our boys had moved out to seek their own fortunes. Onyx was a good companion, as long as he didn't climb on the fish tank.

Onyx wandered around the house freely and would occasionally come into the bathroom while I was preparing for work or an evening out. This was a weekend, and I was cleaning up after a day of yard work. I'd left one of the sliding glass doors of the shower open and was gathering soap and shampoo. [I prefer the realpoo, but that's all that was available at the store.] I stepped into the shower stall and organized the items, then noticed Onyx pacing just at the lip of the stall. "Well, don't just stand there, come in," says I.

He did, gingerly stepping over the tiling, then began checking out each corner. I slid the door closed, and he looked up at me expectantly. "Okay, so let's take a shower together; I don't for a minute think all those 'baths' you take are sufficient to really get you clean," says I. He gazed at me as if I truly doubted his capabilities at personal hygiene, not that I was just pulling his tail. ["Pulling his leg" or "jerking his chain" can't possibly evoke the sense of humor I was trying to infuse the situation with.] [[Pardon the dangling participle, or anything else of that ilk.]]

Now comes the fun part. "Are you ready, boy?" asks daft ol' me, and turned on the water, not waiting for a reply. I should have. Perhaps he'd have explained to me in some detail his ghastly aversion to water. Instead of a leisurely discussion of why he hates the wet stuff, when he was first traumatized, who perpetrated the misdeed, where the horrendous incident occurred, or how he's worked to avoid any similar situations, Onyx simply leapt into action and showed me what he thought of my disregard for his itsy-bitsy phobia.

He jumped straight upward and dug his claws into my inner thigh. I yelled. He gained purchase with his back claws and rappelled upward further. I yowled. He clambered past my groin (thankfully) and slithered around my hip. I howled. He managed to use my buttocks as a springboard and pounced to my shoulder. I hollered. He reached into my hair with his claws and used tufts of it as an equestrian might use the reigns of a horse to guide me out of the deluge of H2O. I hobbled. We slammed into the far wall, I flung open the shower door, and he parchuted to safety upon the wooden bathroom floor. I huddled.

I watched him stagger away, shaking each paw, whipping his tail, shuddering in his coat, all in an effort to shake off every last drop. The shower continued to pelt me, but it was many minutes before I closed the door, let the warm water sluice away the pin-pricks of blood and torn flesh, and finished the shower...alone.

He and I never saw eye-to-eye again. On anything.

B4itellyouwehaveopted2havedogsinsteadofcatsfromthatpointon

Makes me glad I just have a curtain for my shower. The Greebster likes to sit on the edge of the tub between the curtain and the liner as I shower. Sort of a kitty sauna. He's poked his head in around the edge a few times just to double check that I am indeed letting water hit me without running and hiding under the bed or sofa. He doesn't comprehend the idea but he seems to tolerate it.